Genesis Plague (23 page)

T
wenty minutes south of Tacoma Narrows Airport and hundreds of
miles north of San Francisco, Sherri landed the Cessna on a dirt strip and
eased to a stop next to a small blue shack.

“Welcome to Centralia
International Airport,” she said, smiling at Frank.

He chuckled. Must have
been an inside joke, although it wasn’t hard to puzzle it out. A small, rusted
satellite dish sat atop the blue shack, along with a narrow radio antenna. A
heavy padlock hung from the latch on the front door. ‘International airport’
indeed.

“Buddy of mine owns
this strip,” Frank said. “I think we’re the first ones to use it all year.”

“Might be the last,
too, from the sound of it,” said Sherri.

Frank squeezed her
hand, then he pointed to a run-down beige Ford Ranger pickup parked by a barn across
a small field.

“We called ahead.
Keys’ll be in the ignition.”

“I doubt I’ll be able
to return it,” I said.

Frank nodded. “I’ll
work somethin’ out with the owner. We go back a ways.”

I shook his hand, then
Sherri’s. “Tell your daughter I said hello. I’m glad you folks were in that
hangar.”

“I’m sure we’ll see ya
again,” Frank said. He reached forward and adjusted a dial on the cockpit
instrument panel.

“You sure you want to
do this, Paul?” asked Flint, nervously chewing his lip.

I gestured for him to follow
me outside as I hopped down out of the plane. I led him a few feet away. Conny
watched us from the back seat.

I handed Flint the
plastic tube filled with the pale orange vaccine. He took it reluctantly.

“What am I supposed to
do with this?” he asked.

“Get it to the lab in
San Francisco.”

“But you said it only
works on first-generation infected.”

“And there will be
plenty of those to cure, believe me,” I said. “Try the entire west coast of the
States.”

“I poke around
volcanoes!” Flint said. “I don’t know a damned thing about this virus!”

“There will be plenty
of folks who do.”

“I should be going with
you.”

“Listen,” I said
gently. “Whatever Xander took out of the cave beneath Mauna Loa, he brought
with him to Rapid City. Maria showed me what’s going on in San Francisco. The
place has been turned into a fortress by people who either saw this thing
coming or were tipped off as soon as we got back from Hawaii. She said remote
research bases were under construction before there was even a whiff of an
outbreak. She also said that
Polychaeta Loasis
has strong antiviral
compounds, enough to keep it from being infected by the virus. Maria only has a
few samples left, and if those deteriorate, she’s going to need more. A
lot
more. I have a hunch that Xander either took some of the slugs out of Mauna Loa
or he knows where we can find another colony.”

“Sounds like a job for
a volcanologist. Which I just happen to be, by the way. We found the damn
things in a volcano, in case you forgot.”

“I’ll call you if I go
spelunking again.”

“Are you sure this
isn’t about chasing Cassidy?” he asked.

“It was at first,” I
said. “Now it’s also about finding a new vaccine.”

Flint frowned. “You
shouldn’t do this alone.”

“He isn’t,” said Conny,
hopping out of the plane.

“I sure as hell am,” I
said, pulling her away from the plane so Frank and Sherri couldn’t hear me.
“You know your best chance is to get to San Francisco. There’s still time to
find a new vaccine using the surviving
Loasis
specimens.”

She shrugged off my
hand. “I’m not going so I can be locked up and forgotten. What if they use me
as a test subject? I won’t end up like Dan and Roger.” She crossed her arms. At
first I thought she was just being petulant about being left out, then I saw
that she was shivering from fear. “Besides,” she said after a quick breath,
“you’re going to the only other place I know that could have more information
about this virus. I could be more useful with you than stuck in a cage in San
Francisco.”

“I might not find the
solution, Conny.”

“It’s my choice to go,
and I’m going.”

I hesitated, and Flint
looked at Conny and me, dumbfounded.

“I don’t
believe
you two!” Then he sighed. “This is just great. Now I feel like a selfish jerk
if I leave.”

I put my hand on his
shoulder. “You know Maria, and you know the lab. Get the vaccine to San Fran.
We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“Yeah, sure,” Flint
said quietly, the skepticism in his voice obvious.

I squeezed his
shoulder. “You just be careful, okay? And tell Maria—” I stopped, struggling to
decide on the right words. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

Flint climbed back into
the plane and shut the door behind him. Sherri fired up the engine and rolled
toward the end of the dirt airstrip so she could turn back and get a full run
for takeoff.

Conny and I walked
across the field to the beat-up Ranger. A confetti-blast of rust particles shot
out from the hinges when I opened the driver’s door. Conny climbed up into the
bed and settled down in a corner against the tailgate.

“You can ride up front,
Conny.”

She gave me an appreciative,
but sad, smile. “Thanks, Paul. I’ll stay back here.”

The motor started
surprisingly easy, roaring like a lion with pneumonia before settling down to a
continuous staccato growl. The bench seat in the cab creaked under my weight,
but I fit nicely into the pre-dipped hole where Frank’s buddy must have sat for
the twenty-odd years he used this truck before me.

Sherri waved as the
Cessna picked up speed down the strip. The tires bounced once, then lifted off
the ground. I caught one last look at Flint, staring ahead stoically, before
the plane banked and headed south, slowly shrinking toward the horizon.

I popped the Ranger
into gear and rolled past the barn, heading for a dirt road on the other side
that would take me out to the highway. Conny rode peacefully in the bed, her
eyes closed, her head slightly tilted back to enjoy the breeze.

I buckled up and checked
the dash. The gas tank was full, so let’s hear it for the small things. It was
over a thousand miles to Rapid City, and that was a hell of a lot of road.

T
he old man behind the counter was in no hurry.

He poked at medicine
boxes on the shelf with a bony finger, mumbling as he quietly read the labels.

“Ah,” he said at last,
plucking up a square box with an orange label.

He handed the box to me
and I opened it: six surgical-style face masks, blue with white straps.

I pulled out a ten dollar
bill from my pocket and tried to hand it over. The corners of his mouth curled
upward in a strange grin.

“It’s two hundred
dollars,” he said in a reasonable tone.

“The label says eight
bucks.”

His shoulders rose in
an almost imperceptible shrug. “It’s the last box.”

Through the store’s
front window, I could see Conny in the parking lot, waiting in the back of the
old Chevy pickup. Her dark hair hung over the side as she rested her head on
the tailgate, watching the sunset.

In the glove box was a
.38 caliber revolver that had probably been left for me. I wondered if the old
man behind the pharmacy counter had ever had a gun pointed in his face.

“Will you take
one-fifty?” I asked, pulling out a stack of folded bills from my back pocket.
They had been tucked under the pistol in the glove box, all neat and tidy.

The pharmacist’s eyes
flicked down to the cash, and he shook his head. I unfolded two crisp hundred
dollar bills and set them on the counter next to two bags of barbecue chips and
a packet of roasted almonds – the last scraps of food in the store, or in any
of the hollowed-out markets we drove past on the way here.

The old man reached for
the money, his eyes sparking with avarice, and I grabbed his frail wrist and
pulled him toward me. Now there was only fear in his eyes as he looked up,
searching my face.

My anger faded more
quickly than I’d like, and I let him go. He stumbled backward, breathing hard.
The two bills stayed between us on the counter.

“Do you have any
gasoline?” I asked, my voice steady. “All the pumps in town are dry.”

Free from my grasp, the
old man instantly regained his former composure. “Nope,” he said. “Should have
seen the place two days ago. Lines of cars all the way down Main Street,
waiting for their turn.”

He was talking about
Main Street in Clarkston, Washington, just shy of the Idaho border.

“You could try Orofino,
down the road,” said the pharmacist. “Or Missoula further on, if you’re
desperate.”

He slowly reached for
the cash and tucked it into his pocket.

“Do you have herbal
medicines?” I asked. “Dipsacus asper?”

His brow creased. “What
do you need with a procoagulant?”

“I take it you haven’t
seen the infection up close.”

“No, I don’t have any.
This is a clean town, mister.”

“Only because you’re
the last one in it.”

I violently snatched
the box of face masks off the counter. The old man jumped back and bumped into
the shelf behind him. I calmly picked up the chips and almonds.

“What in the hell did
you do that for?!” he asked.

I looked into his eyes.
“Just greedy, I guess.”

T
he sun was in my rearview mirror as I drove the old Chevy
toward the edge of town. Several cars were parked haphazardly along the side of
the road, most with their doors open and their gas caps missing. Finding a tank
to siphon that wasn’t dry had proven to be a fruitless mission.

Conny rode in the bed.
She refused to join me in the cab. I bought the face masks for my peace of mind
as much as hers, but she still wouldn’t go within a few feet of anyone unless
she could help it.

She ate the bag of
almonds and some chips – dinner of champions, I called it – then neatly tucked
the torn wrappers into her pocket. Looking at the empty city as I turned off
Main Street and got back on the highway, I couldn’t help but thinking,
What’s
the point?

Everyone was gone – well,
everyone except the pharmacist, who was going to earn his extra cash until the
last customer rolled through. Maybe it had been me. He didn’t show any signs of
infection. Maybe he would be there until the power went out, sweeping his floor
and arranging bottles of pills on his shelves.

Most of the folks on
the western seaboard that had been allowed to leave were migrating east. The general
consensus was that there would be no evacuations from the west coast given the
heavy number of infected. The east coast was supposedly a better bet. And so
the people crowded the central United States in a scramble to flee the heavily
saturated infection zones. If they had been watching the news, they knew the
east coast wouldn’t offer much in the way of safe havens.

At least thirty percent
of New York’s population was already infected. It was the heart of the virus in
the northeast, and it showed no signs of slowing. Moving south from there, you
came to Annapolis, Richmond, Atlanta, and Orlando – smaller pockets quickly
catching up with New York in terms of percent of infected population. Each
major hub pulsed the virus out for hundreds of miles, spreading across the map
like cancer.

Once it had become
clear that the National Guard lacked the manpower to simultaneously quarantine
the dozens of infected cities, our next best hope was that the
Loasis
virus died with its current hosts. But it spread too quickly, even though it was
still fluid-borne.

In the four-day window
after the entire western seaboard was blanketed with volcanic ash swarming with
the virus, people flew to another state to visit their relatives; they flew to
another country on business. The seeds of a worldwide pandemic were sewn, and I
feared we were only just starting to see the initial stages of our downfall.

It took another four
hours to hit Missoula, Montana, and the road was quiet for the most part. I got
lucky finding a green Jeep while driving through Clearwater National Forest and
siphoned a few gallons of fuel. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who thought to
avoid the interstates. Didn’t work out too well for whoever owned the Jeep, but
hopefully they caught a ride and continued east.

It would have made a
nice upgrade from the Chevy, but I wanted to find something with better gas
mileage. Despite all of the abandoned cars, I hadn’t yet found a single set of
keys.

Traveling off the
interstates would only get us past Missoula, where Route 12 took a sharp turn
north and dumped everyone onto I-90. The freeway could be clear, or it could be
chaos. We wouldn’t have another option, though, if we wanted to get to Rapid
City.

Conny banged on the
side of the truck when we were just outside of town. Her dark hair whipped over
her face as she pointed to the side of the highway. At first I thought she was
pointing at the abandoned and broken-down cars lining the sides of the road,
then I saw a patch of golden fur in the grass beyond the shoulder.

I was hesitant to stop
because I didn’t want to expend more gas by cutting and starting the engine,
but Conny banged harder on the side of the truck. I pulled to a stop next to a
beige Volvo with a flat tire, hoping to find a few drops in the tank.

Conny hopped out of the
bed and walked back to where she saw the patch of fur. I didn’t have to tell
her to be careful; we had been saying it to each other since we left Flint with
the vaccine south of Seattle. Conny seemed to take the warning a little less
seriously than I did, and I understood her reasons. I bet I would feel the same
way if I were infected.

I popped the hood of
the Volvo. The battery was missing, the red and black wires cut clean. It was
the same story as every other hood I had looked under in my attempt to find a
backup battery. They were all either missing or dead.

The other item I had
been trying uselessly to find every time we stopped was a cell phone. It wasn’t
that I expected to get straight through to anyone, because the network was
jammed. I thought it would be comforting to have one, just in case. I would
like to check in with Flint if I could, to see how things were going – assuming
he made it to the lab.

The gas cap on the
Volvo was still screwed shut, which was a good sign, and it was not a diesel
engine. Feeling optimistic, I grabbed the long plastic tube from the Chevy’s
cab and the one-gallon gas can from the bed. The Volvo’s gas cap popped off and
I fed the long tube into the tank. Ideally, I would also have had a shorter
tube so I could blow into the tank to start the gas flow. Would have saved me
from getting a mouthful of gasoline.

C’est la vie
. It
had to be done the hard way.

A second later, I was
spitting fuel onto the highway and wiping my mouth with my shirt as light amber
liquid flowed into the gas can. The flow stopped too quickly, when the can was
only about two inches full.

I was tipping the
nozzle of the can into the Chevy’s tank when Conny shouted, “Paul!” in a way
that made me drop the can and run in her direction.